


Who We Once Were

by lollypoopdeck



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Character Development, Curse of Osiris, Destiny storyline, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ghosts doing the Lord's work, Give Ophiuchus a tag, Guardian-Ghost bond, I don't think it's a major character death if she comes back though, I put it in anyway, Ikora needs a nap, Lore spoilers, Lots of hurt eventual comfort, Mad Fluff, Maybe I overdid it, Mentions of Suicide, Post-Red War (Destiny), Pre-Canon, Sad Ghost Hours, She isn't my Vanguard but I don't care, Thanatonautics, The Red War (Destiny), This was originally an expansion on lore but it turned into a character study, oh well, soft Vanguard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 10:39:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19227493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lollypoopdeck/pseuds/lollypoopdeck
Summary: “What do you think, Ophiuchus?”He caught the question and the musings before it. She looks to him, expectantly, patiently, askingwhat he thinks.It has been twenty-two thousand three hundred and three days. Sixty human years since she has so much as acknowledged him. Sixty years…“You’re not just my Ghost,” she says, voice tender as though she hadn’t been completely shutting him out. “We were friends, once. I want to know what you think.”He feels anger, quick and hot. Joy and hope, unabashed. Selfishness also sneaks its way into his being, but neither emotion can decide who gets to take a seat. Everything is too much and not enough, so when he does speak, his voice is strained.“I’m glad you asked,” he tries.OR!That one lengthy, emotional expansion on Universal Wavefunction that nobody asked for because these characters are absolutely lovely and that piece of lore was just too short for my liking. This is a story of friendship, hurt, loss and forgiveness; seen through the eyes of a loyal Ghost.Disclaimer: I own a disc.





	Who We Once Were

**Author's Note:**

> Extra long AN, I’m sorry. But there’s a lot to unpack here. If you skim through the paragraphs marked “Important,” you should be good to go.
> 
> First of all, thanks for clicking, you beautiful Guardian, you. What you see here before you is the result of four brutal months of cultivation. I must say this is the only time fanfiction has ever really failed me. After I read Ikora's Resolve and Universal Wavefunction, then searched FFNet _and_ Ao3 for fics and found NOTHING … whew. And so forth came _this_ behemoth of a single chapter. You're welcome, to be honest. I did consider splitting this up but I was having difficulty deciding when to cut it off so then I thought, screw it, I myself love reading extra-long chapters, so y'all are gonna have to get cozy and tough it out :P
> 
> Important information: This fic assumes heavy knowledge of certain lore tabs and both Destiny games. You absolutely could read this without knowing the lore, but many things may be unclear and or confusing to you. I would encourage you to at least read Ikora’s Resolve and Universal Wavefunction, as those are the two main tabs this story is based on. I’ll drop you the links before you start reading. However… some little things here will be lore-inaccurate, as I wrote some pieces before finding certain tabs and didn’t feel like redoing it. You’ll see at the end.
> 
> I'm assuming Ikora's Resolve takes place before D1, because, 1) Ikora is dying and Ophiuchus is bringing her back, so it can’t be during D2, and 2) she’s in the wilds, so I’m thinking this is during the “running away from my reputation” period. If, for whatever reason, it’s set after or _during_ Destiny, then this was either a yuge waste of time that could've been better spent doing homework, or hooray for headcannon! This story will also tie into a fic on my Guardian's story that I'll hopefully have uploaded in the summer, but there is no real time table for these things, and WWOW isn’t a requisite. Both fics can stand alone. As such, I’ll be using my Guardian, a female human Hunter, for the Destiny plot here. She won't be a focal part of this fic, so I'll keep her name anonymous in case anyone wants to insert their characters. d^_^b
> 
> Also... Ikora might annoy you. This story does takes place back in her more... ahem... _rambunctious_ days, after all. I know it's fantasy fiction and junk but I'm a stickler for accuracy in characters and dialogue, so please know that even though she's not my Vanguard, I love her and did my best to do her justice. She will (hopefully) progress and grow into the Ikora we know and love toda—before Forsaken. Teeheehee *sadboihours*
> 
> Also important: Unbeta’d, aside from what Word told me and my own proofreading skills. This isn't my first fic, but it is my first completed and published fic, and my first attempt at writing action. If there's anything you notice that I could improve, I'm open to hearing it. Please be nice unto my soul.
> 
> Homework: [Ikora's Resolve](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/entries/ikoras-resolve), [Universal Wavefunction](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/entries/universal-wavefunction), [Sagira's Shell](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/entries/sagiras-shell), [Sails of Osiris](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/entries/sails-of-osiris), [Solstice Robes](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/entries/solstice-robes-rekindled), [Bond](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/entries/solstice-bond-rekindled), and [Hood](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/entries/solstice-hood-rekindled), [Sol Pariah 6](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/entries/sol-pariah-6), [Concentric Dawn](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/entries/concentric-dawn), [Vesper of Radius](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/entries/vesper-of-radius), [Ego Talon Bond](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/entries/ego-talon-bond), and [Gensym Scribe](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/entries/gensym-scribe)
> 
> Suggested listening: Either of the Destiny soundtracks, but 2 is my favorite. Psst, "[Ikora](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7pdGAJXt_5M).”
> 
> DISC CLAIMER: I own a disc. Two, actually, one for each game. Fancy that.

It has been approximately six hundred minutes and twenty-three seconds since she has spoken to him.

 

Six hundred minutes since she told him they were going back to Trostland. Since the last time he called her out.

 

And she refuses to acknowledge him.

 

She knows he is against such things. There is a stark difference between staring death in the face, and willingly holding its hand. Many times, he’s told her this. He has exploited every angle and method of communication he knows she’ll heed, but she _insists_ upon doing it. It wasn’t until today that she finally snapped at him.

 

Nevertheless, they move on to Trostland, questing for whatever item of value it was that she’d found this time. He summons her sparrow without so much as a gesture, and the ride there is just as silent.

 

Seven hundred and one minutes.

 

Ophiuchus considers himself a patient Ghost. There were countless days and nights where the only thing he was good for was bookkeeping and various janitorial services. But his faith won out, and led him to Ikora Rey. His Guardian. It was patience that carried him though that centuries-long search for his purpose. That same patience will see him through this impasse.

 

Eight hundred and fifteen minutes.

 

She’s done it again.

 

He resurrects her without a word. She gulps a wretched breath, air ripping through her lungs, and nearly falls off the thick tree limb she had perched herself on. She says nothing. She stills, calls herself to balance, and works to steady her breathing— _in, out, in, out—_ until she’s slipped back into that meditative trance.

 

He says nothing.

 

xXx

 

Four hundred days.

 

In that time, she has purposely died a tenth of that number. He brings her back without comment, merely watching her, waiting for her to stop.

 

Her attempts are sporadic at best, but still, she shows no signs of doing so.

 

His concern only grows, but he says nothing of it.

 

xXx

 

Air grates against her lungs, a piercing disturbance in the gentle dark of the ship’s hold.

 

Not for the first time, Ophiuchus wonders whether this is part of “running away” from her reputation; to find some form of escape, or answers to a question she doesn’t know to ask. It also makes him wonder why she can’t seem to find another method of inquisition that would actually _yield results_.

 

She never tells him what she finds. He suspects there’s nothing _to_ find.

 

Dwelling on it makes him bristle. Loudly. He throws himself back down on a crate, not caring that she jumps, and shuts off his light.

 

In the darkness, he can see her. Her Light illuminates her frame, but the pulse is dim as it lies dormant. She’s staring at him. Almost longingly. Almost. And he’s far too frustrated to even consider what that look could possibly mean.

 

In the end, she says nothing, which is what he knew would happen. When they wake, they set a course for the Tower.

 

Five hundred and forty-one days.

 

xXx

 

Ikora is a horrible pilot. He never says this to her face, but he thinks it, and she knows he thinks it.

 

Because she is.

 

And he’s terrified.

 

Ophiuchus has insisted numerous times that he take the controls, citing the importance of calibration and monitoring the spectrums she cannot see. It is not quite a lie, but he says this only to spare her of her feelings and him of her wrath.

 

In truth? He has no desires for a premature death.

 

But Ikora _does_ , apparently, if her games with thanatonautics are any indication. Always in a hurry. Always needing to _do_ something. Now, he once suggested, in expertly gift wrapped and heavily sugar-coated words, that she will one day get them killed. Instead of speaking normal words, Ikora—with no small amount of enthusiasm—made a point of purposely diving the ship _into the Atlantic._

On this delicate matter, Ophiuchus has learned to keep his mouth shut.

 

And now they’re on their way back to the City.

 

Traveler help them.

 

He transmats them into the ship, and quickly takes cover in the little cubby hole he found two hundred flights ago right above her headrest.

 

She laughs.

 

At him.

 

It was brief, quiet, and barely perceptible, but Ophiuchus is absolutely delighted at the sound. All glee is then quashed when she takes off.

 

 _Take_ off. Not lift. Never lift.

 

The opposite of her smooth and graceful fighting style, she zips, dips and ducks to avoid Fallen ships, and nearly barrel rolls into a mountain. She pushes the ship to the height of its limits, thrusting the both of them back into their seats. For some reason she decides to fly ground level, just narrowly avoiding two Walkers, and it’s all Ophiuchus can do not to let out an unearthly screech.

 

When they _finally_ clear Fallen territory, _unscathed_ , she clips the wing on a tree.

 

The monitors blink an angry red. The alarm blares. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t comment. Neither does he.

 

xXx

 

At five hundred forty-four days, he’s the first one to speak. She decides, for some strange reason or another, to approach the City on foot, from _days_ _out_. He tells her that a group of Fallen are up ahead, and summons her shotgun. She takes the gun, and says nothing.

 

She fights with an agitation he’s never seen before. Where there was once grace, now there is force. Where there was calculation, now there’s abandon. Her motions are sharp, jarred, and uncharacteristically blunt. Ophiuchus almost makes the mistake of asking if she’s okay. It is impossible for him to tell if this is evidence of any anger, as her mind is no longer open to him. She doesn’t _seem_ overly frustrated, and her meditations continue as scheduled. He does notice, however, the exorbitant effort she puts into her power in particular when fighting Captains and Servitors.

 

Upon arriving to the City, she is immediately met with smiles and cheer. Ikora does not make friends so easily, but her name will be recognized almost anywhere. She greets her peers with small grins and nods of acknowledgement. Surprisingly, she returns to the Crucible for a few days, and she’s back to herself. Mostly. She smiles a little more often, and Ophiuchus suspects it is simply because of the thrill of the fight. Fallen provide a challenge, yes, but even a Captain cannot compare to a fellow Guardian. She has missed this. Almost all irritation is melted away, replaced with a reckless freedom that is entirely her own.

 

She is home.

 

Somehow, that knowledge puts Ophiuchus at ease.

 

xXx

 

When she first woke, it was as though she had simply risen out of sleep. She sat upright with a small gasp, blinking the dust from her eyes, and gazed around at the green of the forest he had found her in. Her eyes, previously swirling pools of deep brown, were gradually transformed by the Light into softly glowing, golden-honey orbs. They darted back and forth between the trees and the shrubbery. Slightly frightened. But mostly fascinated.

 

Then, those beautiful orbs found him.

 

Whatever all else she was looking for was completely forgotten; her questioning gaze transfixed on his own. She studied the prongs of his shell only briefly before deciding his eye was perhaps the most intriguing thing in this forest. Ophiuchus felt something inside him burst.

 

Then she had asked, not unkindly, but with great curiosity and wonder, “what are you?”

 

And he got to talking. Ophiuchus knew the explosion he felt was not a circuit.

 

From that moment on, they had been inseparable.

 

xXx

 

Ikora Rey is a constellation of complexes. A woman of few words, and far too many thoughts. Emotions do not filter through her easily. She buries, tempers, and conceals that which _“will not bring forth any productive action.”_ Which, in Ophiuchus’ well-informed opinion, is every feeling known to the universe. Crying is a weakness. Fear is a weakness. Grief, essentially, does not exist. And so, she has convinced herself that she does not. These chinks in armor are ignored, abandoned; left exposed and at risk of infection. The longer she denies her feelings, the more these wounds will fester until they threaten to undo her completely.

 

For someone so enlightened, it is a mystery to Ophiuchus why she cannot see this.

 

She does not probe about her past, nor does she dwell on past hurts. She lives in the moment, prepares for the future. Ikora does not discuss her feelings, only thoughts. Theories. Ideas. Practical things, because Ikora is a practical mind… and she doesn’t even express those as often as Ophiuchus would like. She prefers her focus to lie on her responsibilities as Guardian and scholar. Very rarely is she not working; she’s almost constantly running around fulfilling assignments for Osiris, undertaking various patrols, or even in her library—which is supposed to be her place of rest—researching anything and everything.

 

When something _does_ manage to prompt Ikora to speech, her aura is calm, tone even. Her voice carries without needing to be raised; filled with wisdom and experience beyond her years, and a passion previously thought non-existent in Warlocks. She provides concise, knowledgeable replies, and does not speak a syllable more than what is necessary. When she’s having something of a bad day, these replies are deliberately shortened, clipped, and anyone who has not caught on to the hint is subject to a thorough berating.

 

Her mannerisms and temper would suggest her to be a recluse… which isn’t a whole lie. She will never admit it, but Ophiuchus knows Ikora secretly appreciates the company of her fellow Guardians; more specifically, those who match and rival her intelligence. As such, she holds much of her council with Osiris. Sometimes she will converse with the Speaker, and other times with Andal Brask. Ikora has a very strict set of opinions, and when she has set her mind to something, it is already counted as done. Disagreements arise— _often_ —but on the best of days, disputes are a learning curve. She can be agreeable when she wants to. Those who are brave enough to seek her out for advice are rewarded with insight that surpasses their inquiries; and, if they’re lucky, they are also treated to a good old-fashioned conversation.

 

However, she did not get her reputation by suffering through the _nice_ role.

 

Ikora’s rage is a thing of legend. She has little to no patience for rules and regulations, and even less tolerance for the inane. She is utterly reckless at times—overzealous at others—and will utilize those attributes wherever the cryptic doctrines of the Tower hinder growth. The woman isn’t altogether blunt, but when moved to umbrage, she will not hesitate to let someone hear about it. They say she is outspoken by nature, but passionate is the word Ophiuchus would use. Blind faith, false pretenses, and outdated laws are just a few of the many things that will send her off into a lecture of the most expansive of proportions.

 

On the battlefield, one would think she was some species of Warlock-Hunter-Titan spawn. All her skills seem to bolster tenfold. Brutal, precise, versatile, unyielding; but she does so with the utmost grace. Whether in the Crucible or on missions, she moves with a certain fluidity, a fomenting boldness. A swagger that only she has the fortune of claiming ownership. Many times, she will not even need to use her Super. She is, quite honestly, with every possible ounce of respect that is due, a devil. Ophiuchus has witnessed every moment her temper influenced a battle, and he still cannot wrap his mind around the sheer power of his Guardian.

 

Her anger gives her strength, and to the Ghost’s utter relief, she continues to hold its leash. Ever aware of her surroundings, she knows just where and when to release it. Words are her favorite medium; she reads to calm herself, losing all sense of the present in the pursuit of knowledge and its many, many, _many_ literary forms. If there exists a page, and it’s full of letters, best believe she has already read it. It seems to Ophiuchus that nearly every known word is at her disposal. She has absolutely no reservations about being vocal with her displeasure, but when she’s feeling especially irritable, she communicates it in more tempered and, in Ophiuchus' opinion, _effective_ ways; the quiet flash of her eyes, the slightest downturn of her lips. The Ghost can clearly remember every time she’s turned a Guardian to fear from her silence alone.

 

Ikora Rey is a constellation of complexes. Bold, quiet, daring, concerned. She is all of this and more, but to Ophiuchus, she is perfect, and will always be his Guardian. That is the only thing that matters.

 

xXx

 

She fights with Osiris. He has learned about what she’d been doing with thanatonautics, though how he found out is beyond Ophiuchus. Osiris himself is a renowned thanatonaut, but stopped upon finding new methods. He moves fast. Too fast, Ophiuchus thinks. As of late his interests lie in bed with the Vex, and he grows more engrossed in the intricacies of their nature by the day. Between his duties as Commander and his frequent exploits, the Ghost is surprised he had any time to summon Ikora at all.

 

In the early evening, they are the sole occupants in the Hall of Guardians—a rare sight, indeed. Enemy activity is at a record low this week, so many of the Guardians have taken this opportunity for a much-deserved reprieve. The Vanguard are also on leave at Osiris’ insistence, though Ophiuchus and Ikora saw Andal looking over maps with Lord Shaxx on their way here.

 

And now Osiris argues with Ikora, urging her to cease her current quest and help him further investigate the Vex. She denies him, claiming defense of the City is a far more pressing matter.

 

“I cannot devote my time and resources to a cause that could very well be a red herring,” she snips at him. Her hand is at her temple, the vein in her forehead throbbing.

 

“A red herring?!” Osiris repeats with disgust, and he closes the book he was reading with just a touch more force than necessary. “The answers are already out there, Ikora; floating adrift in the stars! I’ve seen their technology firsthand—their control over simulations, regeneration, time travel—it _is_ worth pursuing!”

 

Ikora narrows her eyes at his wistful tone. “What have you done?”

 

“Nothing that the Tower is not already aware of,” he answers simply, but his eyes have that glaze; a telltale sign that he hasn’t slept in days and is most likely not telling the entire truth. “Ikora,” he sighs gently, “there is no one I would rather have at my side. Please, at least consider.”

 

She says she will, though Ophiuchus knows deep within his non-existent heart that she will not. Her beliefs on this matter will not be swayed. When she leaves him, striding out of the Hall and to the Tower courtyard, it’s dark. Late night. They’re the only two outside at this hour. The moon is high, barely visible behind the thick, dense clouds, so he materializes as a light next to her.

 

She winces, turns away. She never does that when he offers his Light. He wants to go around, to have her face him, until he realizes something.

 

“I didn’t tell him.”

 

For some reason his whisper clatters against the quiet of the courtyard, and it’s his turn to wince. Internally, anyway.

 

Her shoulders tense; apparently, she noticed the loudness, too. Her Light pulses around her, dark, thick and heavy. She does not turn around, and he counts each breath she takes.

 

"I know,” she says softly, but she doesn’t turn around, doesn’t say anything more. The words were spoken without any kind of emotional inflection. The fact that she said anything at all was an indication that she was telling the truth, but he can sense there is something more simmering beneath the surface.

 

Ikora marches back inside the Tower.

 

In the same manner he had eight hundred nights ago, Ophiuchus floats. Lost. Confused.

 

He follows his Warlock.

 

xXx

 

Her mentor has been exiled. She has been named Warlock Vanguard. He can offer no words of comfort or praise.

 

She keeps to herself these days, and hasn’t touched the Crucible in years. Interactions with the Tower occupants do not change, but she becomes harder to locate with each passing day. The minute her presence is no longer needed in the Hall of Guardians, she leaves. Retreats to her sanctuary.

 

Her books.

 

Ophiuchus knows there was some small part of her that wanted to help Osiris. He was, essentially, her closest friend; but his involvement with the Vex had put a strain on her devotion to him and her obligations to the City. He had become absent, remiss in his duties. Warlocks started coming to Ikora on instinct, and she was stuck, unintentionally taking on Osiris’ role in a very short amount of time. He’d left her with the burdens of leadership, a sour aftertaste.

 

For some reason, and to Ophiuchus’ annoyance, her stellar performance garnered attention; the kind that started rumors. The wind mainly carried talk of _Warlock Vanguard Ikora Rey_. Then, there were whispers of her allegiance to Osiris. _She is his best student, and accepts his position without question; surely, she means to follow him when he returns?_

 

Whispers spread like wildfire, and soon they were whispers no more. People began to openly approach her with it, asking when they were planning on departure and how soon they could expect to return. A few of Osiris’ followers even dared to ask if they could come along. At that point, everyone expected her to go—even members of the Consensus had their suspicions. It was a redundant distraction, but Ikora neither denied nor confirmed these rumors; instead taking pleasure in keeping the Tower on edge with ambiguous answers and curt tones.

 

Osiris, with all his badgering and begging, had also thought Ikora might go, despite her numerous attempts to avoid giving him a straight answer. She was his top student, a true scholar. He was one of her closest friends, her _teacher_. He _expected_ her to go. In his world, it only made sense for her to follow him.

 

So, when she informed him of the Consensus’ decision, and told him she _couldn’t follow him_ , Osiris would not speak to her until the day of his exile.

_“Then you understand why I must remain; to continue to lead as you once led.”_

_She’s told him this before. Osiris made no effort to hide his discontent. “Thousands of Vex simulations can help us understand the Darkness, Ikora!" he said. "This could be the key to—"_

_"Osiris," Ikora interrupted. "I wish you well on your mission, but I fear that your obsession will be your undoing."_

_"Obsession?!”_

 

Both Ophiuchus and Osiris had balked at the same time. That was what she’d said just minutes before his departure, and it was the first time she’d ever used that word to describe his endeavors. It was a shock, to say the least. But there was no way for Ophiuchus to know the extent of her feelings on this matter, so he isn’t sure why he’s surprised.

 

_“We have each made a choice. I choose to stay and fight what is real.”_

 

And so, she does. She teaches in his absence, which is exactly what she had been doing for months now, anyway. She does not take her new position lightly, and strives to be the best possible leader she can be, not only for her Warlocks, but for every Guardian. She gets along well with the rest of the Vanguard, but Ophiuchus fears the Hall is constricting her in ways she will refuse to address. When she’s alone, she pores over texts on the City, the Light, and her favorite novels.

 

She hasn’t had a single suicide attempt since her induction.

 

xXx

 

The sky is black, but evidence of an encroaching dawn appears in soft, grey streaks in the clouds. Ophiuchus sits on the courtyard balcony ledge, looking over the City and to the Traveler. Lost, afraid. He does not know what to do.

 

“Are you okay?” asks a voice he’s known since he first came into being. He lifts, turning to Phasma, his sister Ghost.

 

“Yes,” he lies, a tad sooner than he’d intended, because he is just as stubborn as Ikora and unmatched in his own pridefulness. And practicality always demands that, as a Ghost, he not give leniency to certain thoughts and emotions. Such as anger. Confliction. Loneliness. “It has been too long since I’ve watched the sun rise. I was merely thinking.”

 

“About Ikora?” her tone is light but pointed. If she had an eyebrow, it would be raised, suspiciously. Instead, the back half of her white shell twitches, a sign of her displeasure that he had even attempted lying to her.

 

The only response he gives is the whirring of his system, and that is all the answer she needs. She sighs. “I won’t pretend to know the extent of her anger, if that is what this is, but have some patience.”

 

“Patience,” Ophiuchus nearly spits back, voice quivering with fury. Or was it pain? “It has been eleven years. I honestly do not think patience is the problem at this point.”

 

Phasma observes him. Studies him. Thinking. She is the foremost of them, the oldest living Ghost. All Ghosts spawned at the moment of the Traveler’s death, but Phasma was the first born. She is by no means wiser to his plight because of that; to this date, she has never had a Guardian. She searches, still, but uses her talents to assist the Vanguard with reports and other menial tasks. Ophiuchus suddenly feels a sharp pang of sorrow for his friend. The pride he feels for Ikora far outweighs his current frustration, everyday.

 

She catches him, eye blinking. Her voice is a sad smile. “Patience is part of the solution. You know this, Ophiuchus.” He does. He had hit a low point during his centuries-long search for his Chosen, but Phasma encouraged him, urged him not to give up. He wonders how she herself has not already. “Ikora is wise for her age, but she is still so young, and naturally impulsive. Until she learns to control that impulse, she’ll need a positive energy to function differently, and balance her out. She needs you to be strong where she is weak.”

 

Ophiuchus’ shell expands and snaps back, hot and angry. The silver of it catches in the coming sunlight. “I cannot be everything she is not!” he whispers sharply, mindful of the few Guardians wandering around in the early morn. “I cannot continue to make up for her faults! Partnerships between Ghost and Guardian require effort from _both_ sides. I do not know how much longer I can play two parts.”

 

Phasma’s shell flicks twice. “’Partnership,'” she repeats, and Ophiuchus catches her meaning. Few Ghosts and Guardians have the camaraderie he and Ikora had. She deflates just a touch.

 

“Yes,” he confirms, and the syllable sounds like a grunt. “We are no longer on speaking terms.” His voice gives on the last word, and he turns away, back to the Traveler. “Or, at least, she isn’t. I don’t… I don’t know what I did. _If_ I did anything. I’ve tried to understand, but… without an identifiable cause to the disease, there will be no way possible for me to find a cure.” Hopelessness. Despair. The sun has risen. He knows Ikora reported to the Hall about fifteen minutes ago. He sighs softly. “I have to go.”

 

As he floats past her, Phasma’s shell flips in concern for her friend. “Then maybe it’s not up to you,” she mutters, just loud enough for him to hear, and him alone. He does not respond.

 

xXx

 

 

She speaks, though never to him. She talks to other Guardians, to Eris Morn, her former Crucible mates, and even Shaxx himself. The wounds from her mentor’s leave have closed with time, but they are far from healed. She begins to stay in the Hall long after night has fallen, and she devotes herself more fully to her students. As of late, she spends even more time with Zavala and the new Hunter Vanguard, Cayde-6.

 

Cayde is a goofball, a literal _nut_ , and for the longest time Ikora could not stand that it was _him_ taking Andal's place. In the beginning, both her and Zavala’s words to him were clipped and sharp. They gave him the dullest tasks they could find, and limited his watch to scout missions only. But their subtle barbs did not deter him. To Ophiuchus, who merely observes from the shadows, it seems that Cayde is simply the type of person to just… do things. Say things that are on his mind; relieve tension with smart comments and witty jokes. His antics never border on impertinence, so it doesn’t take long for Zavala to begrudgingly accept that _this is their Hunter_.

 

Ikora takes longer. She eventually comes around when the Exo’s poor Ghost floats over to her side of the table, a note saying, _“Good job with 'On Circles,’”_ attached to its shell.

 

To which she responds with narrowed eyes and a dangerous smirk. “Did you actually read it?”

 

“Well, that depends on what you mean by _read_ ,” the Hunter shrugs. “If you mean the covers, then yeah, I read that; all twelve of ‘em. Front and back.”

 

“So that’s a ‘no.’”

 

“Big no.”

 

They stare at each other for four heartbeats.

 

Then, to the surprise of everyone present in the Hall, she laughs a warm laugh.

 

The Tower workers looked about ready to flee, and the Guardians snapped to attention, looking around frantically for any evidence of trouble, and possibly considering running away as well.

 

All were startled, except for Zavala, of course; whose brow furrowed as he peered at Ikora curiously from over the top of his latest report.

 

xXx

 

In the years that follow, the new Vanguard form a close relationship; one born of respect, trust, and loyalty. They speak freely to each other, argue less, and take the time to understand one another’s point of view. Discourse ends with a tentative compromise; a contrast to the sharp jabs they would throw in the past. And they will never admit it out loud, Ikora especially, but the Warlock smiles more, thanks to Cayde. He is constantly trying to get her to laugh at his jokes, but being the wordsmith she is, she turns the tides of embarrassment on him, a devilish smirk twisting her lips. To this date, Cayde’s attempts have never worked on Zavala, but that does not stop the Exo from trying at every possible moment. Ophiuchus thinks that this banter is a good thing.

 

So whatever the problem is that exists between he and Ikora does not appear to be afflicting her in the slightest. She’s pleasant around everyone else. Engaged and actively participating. So long as their duties to the Traveler are not affected, Ophiuchus supposes he could deal with her silence.

 

It isn’t until she begins talking to other Ghosts that he starts feeling some kind of way.

 

Full conversations, too; not just comments and reports. Questions, answers, consultations _, jokes_. Ikora hardly ever makes _jokes_. Snide comments, maybe, dry commentary, but never jokes. At least, not that he’s known.

 

But he doesn’t comment.

 

Ikora is currently chatting it up with Phasma, and he remains in her ear. He dares not come out lest he risk his mouth doing further damage to their already tenuous relationship. If it could be called that.

 

But when Ikora laughs, and inquires about the Ghost’s personal endeavors, he feels abandonment so powerful he accidentally overloads her comm with feedback.

 

They speak as though _they_ are the duo. As if _they_ are Guardian and Ghost, and not he and Ikora. Ophiuchus knows, he _knows_ Phasma has never had a Guardian to this date. That he and Ikora have been two of her few constants. But he is helpless against the torrent of jealously that assaults him.

 

He does not fault Phasma. He cannot, but he must have done something wrong. He traces back to his earliest memories of their stalemate, and can find no clear evidence as to what set it off. Ophiuchus tries so very hard to pick apart every word, every syllable that he’s spoken up to this point, that he doesn’t even remember how Ikora got them to her room.

 

She switches off the lamp, and is soon asleep. He stays awake the whole night, trying to figure out what he said that turned her against him.

 

He finds nothing.

 

When she wakes, they go back to the Hall, where she talks to a Titan and her Ghost. Still, he does not speak on this.

 

Her Light is blinding. It pulses, almost pushing against him, and he does not speak for the next thirty years.

 

xXx

 

There is a new Guardian, one with great promise and exemplary talent for the Light. She is a Hunter, but Ikora watches over her, befriends her, guides her as though she were one of her Warlocks. Phasma is her Ghost, and every time he sees her, even in passing, Ophiuchus expresses his glee and excitement through the private, encoded channel all Ghosts have.

 

Her journey is plenty rough in the beginning. She falls down many times, but Phasma is right there to help her back up. As the months go on, the Hunter grows in strength and knowledge. She destroys the Darkness at the Black Garden's Heart. She holds command of all three subclasses. Her power only heightens, and soon she gains even more renown by challenging a Hive Prince. She wins, then moves on to contend the Taken King.

 

Ophiuchus has never seen progress with the Light like this before. Not even Ikora, for all her considerable mastery over the Void, could hope to attain this level of proficiency in all three subclasses. But her friendship with the Hunter seems to be that of a genuine trust. There is no power rift between them, despite obvious positions of class and hierarchy. When the Hunter offers her opinion, Ikora listens. More often than not, the Guardian will need direction, and Ikora is more than happy to give it to her. There exists some sort of familiar companionship that Ikora has not had since Osiris.

 

No. No, that’s not quite right. This is was better. This was infinitely better.

 

While she sleeps, Ophiuchus slips out into the courtyard, and sends a silent prayer of thanks to the Traveler.

 

xXx

 

The Tower falls. The City is lost.

 

Ikora is enraged. The Speaker is lost, their home is lost. The Light burns as she unleashes whirlwind after whirlwind of Void energy on any Cabal unfortunate enough to be within her line of sight. Every Nova Bomb she hurls reverberates throughout the City, shaking the very foundations of even the newest buildings. She fights with hot tears in her eyes. She fights with desperation. She’s fights—in fear of what would happen if she does not.

 

Zavala does all he can to launch a counter offensive. Guardians are everywhere; half of them are running into each other in their rush to join the Commander, and the other half are scrambling to guide citizens beyond the walls. But for every Cabal they managed to knock off, at least a hundred more would drop down. Their numbers began to dwindle, drastically. Outnumbered. Outmatched. They tried to reclaim their home, but they were unprepared in every sense of the word. To challenge the Red Legion would be to court certain death.

 

Especially without the Light.

 

He had just finished healing a broken collarbone. He sensed the moment his Creator fell. He knows the Life is about to drain from him.

 

When it does, she catches him. She herself is on her knees; weak, _spent_ , even more angry than before, and very confused. He can feel her pulse, erratic and unstable as it pounds through her gloves. Her breathing is harsh and shortened, stolen along with her Light. She needs to rest, but they’re surrounded by Legion soldiers.

 

Ikora throws one of her backup grenades then, incinerating two Psions that were within range. Something roars behind her, and he phases at the same time she draws her shotgun, firing the last of her rounds into the towering Legionary beast. She alternates between her scout and pulse rifle as she progresses through the streets. She’s numb, he can tell, because he is, too. Her movements are languid and her aim not as sharp as it was twenty seconds ago. She presses on, still. The Light is gone, but her furious determination is her power now.

 

She lodges the sharp end of a broken steel plate in a War Beasts neck, then she yelps, falling to her knees. Ophiuchus can see who put the bullet in her shoulder; a Psion, positioned in one of the windows two stories high. It aims to shoot again.

 

She shoots first. He heals her, though the effort drains him, and he is once again motionless as he lay in her hands.

 

Zavala orders a full-scale evacuation.

 

She runs, and she doesn’t stop running until they hit the mountains.

 

Time. Time passes. They’re in the wilds. He regained full consciousness days ago. He’s more than able to fly—or, at the very least, float. But she brings him out, cradling him in her palms when there are no enemies nearby, and holds him tight. He cannot remember at which point she decided to switch to a grenade launcher, instead of Invective. She moves swiftly, cutting a very deliberate swath to a Shard. How she found it is well beyond what he could ever guess. Holding him in one hand, she lays the other upon this cast-off speck of the Traveler, and they wait.

 

And wait.

 

And wait.

 

She steps back, confused, hurt, angry. Both of them could sense the power thrumming just underneath the surface of this Shard, screaming, _begging_ for release. Yet, when she touched it, it fell silent. Retreated. Almost as if it was scared, or had said… _no_.

 

Ophiuchus is _very_ confused.

 

Ikora breathes, closes her eyes. She brings her hands together, holding him just below her stomach, and stares at the Shard.

 

Lost.

 

Unsure.

 

Frightened, for the first time since being reborn.

 

She carries him all the way to Io.

 

He can afford her this small comfort. Even if she can’t speak it, speak to _him_ , he will be here for her, as always.

 

xXx

 

She lets him drive, and the hand that cups his shell trembles. He does not turn to face her, but can sense that she sleeps the entirety of the trip. The ride is silent; the arrival, not so much.

 

Ophiuchus doesn’t know how many cycles they spend on Io. Every new day seems to stretch on longer than the last. And to their horror, they find that the Red Legion’s reach extends to even this sacred place. So, they fight, defend, reclaim what they can, which isn’t much at all. In fact, they hardly make a dent. It was as though the more she fought the less she accomplished. Shoot. Explode. Pain. Heal. Resume. All of this for naught. They are finally forced into hiding when the consequences of their extremely limited resources are resulted in the fracturing of her face.

 

They came here, apparently, seeking answers. To what? Ophiuchus can guess, but he will never know. The barrier around her mind has been dismantled, as the invasion took up any time for maintenance. He still cannot hear her thoughts, but her emotions whip and lash about her; almost as though they were themselves Light. She whispers to herself, as she does when she is making sense of an equation, and spends a lot of time on the cliffs, looking out over the vast canyons and forest life. Stars shine overhead, and the glaring surface of Jupiter bears down on them. Their glow reminds him of the Traveler. It is almost soothing, being here in the wake of his Creator. He cannot tell what the view does for Ikora. She gazes in silence, her usual medium.

 

It is only because he _knows_ her that Ophiuchus knows she is not simply calculating the odds of retaking the City.

 

Communications with the Vanguard have been severed; her fireteam effectively dismembered. Her ship was badly damaged in the retreat, and barely got them to Io in one piece. There is no way possible to get word out that they were alive, or to see who else was.

 

And if _that_ wasn’t enough, the loss of the Traveler would certainly do it. The Light is gone. He can no longer see nor feel it. _She_ can no longer feel it. Ikora also witnessed the Traveler’s demise; she felt the Light as it not only divested itself from her, but _dissipated_. This… _Ghaul_ … had taken their souls. Their very essence. The loss nearly killed Ophiuchus, so he knows all too well the emptiness Ikora is trying her best to deny.

 

She stands near the edge of the cliffs. Ophiuhus is certain suicide is not even one of the thousands of thoughts running rampant in her mind. But she stands, as though waiting. Anticipating. _Reaching_. She, of course, knows the Light is no more; but her decision to come to Io, of all places, has Ophiuchus questioning whether she truly wants to believe that.

 

Ikora Rey is terrified. She never says as much with her mouth, however, she all but declares it in the way she holds herself. Stiff, rigid, and tense when she should be composed. Her hands grasp each other tighter than usual when they come to rest behind her back. The set of her jaw is carved in stone. When he gets a chance to look in her eyes, he is absolutely dismayed to find that they do not glow. They are the deep, curious brown that he found all those many moons ago. They are no less beautiful because of this, but he no longer sees that familiar sparkle; the abundant wisdom and cocky assurance of Ikora the Warlock.

 

He sees a human being, afraid to die.

 

When Ophiuchus _looks_ at her, she is dark, and that is neither because of her skin nor the time of day. It is all but impossible to find even a glint. She is without color. Dull. Murky. Almost shrouded in blackness. And he cannot _feel_ her as he used to.

 

He cannot see her.

 

He wonders, for the first time in a long while, if she can see that same fear reflected in him.

 

xXx

 

Every once in a while, a Legion brigade strays within view of their hiding place. Those Cabal are never seen again.

 

He is unable to resurrect her. Provide her with ammunition. Neither of them has spoken the implication out loud, but they are all too aware of the lingering stench of mortality. She fights them off anyway, doing as much as she can without fatally injuring herself. Ophiuchus is almost grateful for the occasional threat; it seems to have given her a sense of purpose, a will to live. Or a distraction. However you want to look at it.

 

It isn’t too much later that he senses a familiar pulse.

 

The Guardian has reclaimed her Light. Its glare is harsh to his naked eye, thrashing powerfully in a way he has never seen before. She comes bearing news of a resistance, and speaks to Ikora in hushes tones. Her hands itch to embrace her, recognizing her friend’s internal distress, but they remain respectfully at her sides. Ophiuchus wishes she would just give her a hug.

 

“What good is a resistance when you are the only one who would survive?”

 

It was subtle, but the way Ikora’s voice cracks causes Ophiuchus to materialize. There is no bite to the words, but a deep ache; a longing to understand _why has this happened?_ She is breaking, and the most he can do is remind her that _I’m here. I’m right here._

 

She looks to him. The only evidence of pain screams at him from her eyes. Then she turns away.

 

It is enough. She knows.

 

Ophiuchus thinks the Hunter looks how Ikora feels.

 

xXx

 

They have a second chance. The Red Legion is harvesting the Traveler’s energy. The Vex are doing what they do. The Taken are running amok. She blames herself for what is happening to Io.

 

 _“Ikora,”_ the Hunter breathes, exasperated, exhausted, _“there’s no way you… not without your Ligh—"_

 

Ikora interrupts. “I am more than just my Light!”

 

The vehemence in her voice brings pause to the radio. It is strange, now, hearing her express her deepest, most personal feelings of guilt and doubt; but so very much a welcome sound to Ophiuchus' ears.

 

That is, until she continues.

 

“But… after a-all these years, dying, being reborn, dying again… the Traveler has left me with one life, and I am afraid to lose it.”

 

There it is. A confession of the heart. Ophiuchus always imagined this moment would be enlightening for her. An opportunity for her to understand that feelings other than irritation _need_ to be expressed. But her voice loses the anger. It’s timid. She stumbles over her words in a manner more befitting a child, and she grits them out as though they bring her great physical impairment.

 

There is nothing enlightening about her admission. If anything, the fact that _she_ now knows she can no longer touch the unforeseen only makes the gravity of their plight worse.

 

xXx

 

When they find Asher Mir, the old Awoken Warlock immediately puts the Guardian—“Assistant!”—to work; unscrambling the various mysteries as to what the Red Legion are up to, and why the Taken have been called. Ikora stays with him and monitors the Guardian’s progress. She stands across from her old not-quite-friend-not-quite-acquaintance, back turned.

 

From his corner, Asher watches her with a painful, burning, scrutinizing glare. His gaze neither wavers nor wanders, and he does not blink. He scowls, hard, and his left eye twitches in obvious exertion. It feels as though he is trying to force Ikora to face him by way of telekinesis. Ophiuchus tries not to let it bother him, but the more she does not speak to him, the harder he stares.

 

Then, finally, the other Warlock sighs. “You’re tense.” And that gets her to turn around. His frown deepens. “I would suggest utilizing those breathing exercises you Warlocks are so fond of,” he quips, “but who am I to talk?” he waves his metal hand and sniffs disdainfully, pretending to read something on his monitor.

 

Ikora puffs a chuckle, but it’s hollow. “Am I that obvious?”

 

And something about that brings the Awoken to pause. “My dear,” Asher says, and there is no snap, no scorn. His shoulders fall and he looks her in the eyes. Ophiuchus is reminded then that Asher Mir is all too familiar with the looming threat of death, the cold uncertainty that each day brings. “The fear is so acidulous that my pharyngeal reflex is threatening to tear my throat apart.”

 

They stare for seven seconds, and the fingers on Asher’s good arm twitch.

 

“It means throw—”

 

“I know what it means, Asher.”

 

They return to a tentative silence, neither knowing what to say or do. Ikora catches her bottom lip between her teeth and diverts her attention to her muddy, damaged boots. For some reason, Ophiuchus is taken aback at how well the action fits her—a horrific glimpse into who she may have been in her past life. A young woman, inexperienced at the world, but never allowing her lack of knowledge to deter her from the pursuit. A timid girl, full of light, potential, and opportunity. A girl, who, though wise beyond her years, was alone in that regard; never quite able to answer the question _“why can’t I fit in?”_

 

A very, very lost little girl.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” she breathes.

 

Asher’s expression goes soft, but uncomfortable. Ophiuchus cannot determine if it is the situation or the action that pains him.

 

“Neither do I.”

 

xXx

 

They travel back to Earth with the Guardian, leaving her ship with Asher. If they survive, they’ll come back to retrieve it.

 

Ikora is deathly quiet the first hour of the trip, preferring a secluded seat against a wall in the tiny cargo bay. Her legs cross at the ankles and she holds her bond in her lap, running a gloveless thumb over the patterns. Ophiuchus hovers just over a pile of cloaks, watching her, but he says nothing. At some point the Guardian leaves the cockpit, coming to stand in the hold’s doorway, and Ophiuchus names every flicker of emotion that crosses her face; fear, need, uncertainty. She’s debating whether she should go forward or turn back.

 

Ikora knows the girl is there, of course; her Light is all but sucking all the air out of the room. Aside from _that_ tell, Ikora’s head inclines just so, faintly listening to every time the Guardian shifts her foot. She never looks up.

 

The young Hunter eventually decides on chance and walks over to sit beside her, drawing her knees up to her chest. She sees him and grins, wearily. He blinks his light in response.

 

With her so close, Ophiuchus expects her Light to obscure his vision to unimaginable lengths, but it is not as it was earlier. It is gentle. Calm. Soothing. Ikora feels it as well; the familiar caress of Light, the cool, tingling pressure of Arc energy trickles into her being and her eyes flutter closed, head resting against the wall in a miniscule show of relief.

 

Ophiuchus counts all the way to three hundred before the Guardian speaks.

 

“I’m scared.”

 

Her words were soft, a whisper, but Ikora flinches as though struck. The Hunter’s eyes are set forward—either she doesn’t notice, or she’s giving Ikora some privacy. Whatever the case, she does not receive any form of response. She brings up a closed fist, holding it between them.

 

“I’m the only Guardian who has Light right now. I’ve seen how the others look at me,” and lightning crackles on her fingertips when she opens them. “Jealousy, pride, hope. I’m supposed to be their hope.” Her voice is small, and it cracks.

 

The fist falls, hitting the floor between them. Surprisingly, Ikora reaches down and brings the leather clad hand to rest next to her bond against her thigh, squeezing her reassurance. The Guardian’s eyes flick to hers, shocked at the Warlock’s outward display of affection, but only slightly. Ophiuchus can see the beginnings of tears when Ikora gives her a small, tired smile. He has always known her to be young and carefree. Phasma says she was just barely twenty years old when she died her first death. For all her age, she has faced terrible foes, defied gods. She has burdened the trials of the Taken War and carried the fates of many on her shoulders more times than Ophiuchus can remember. She is strong. But she is also a child.

 

They are the same, she and Ikora. But unlike the Warlock, she was never allowed the chance to grow up. This has never been more evident than it is right now.

 

She cants her head, hiding the tears beneath her mess of white hair. “This is nothing like the Black Garden. Or Oryx. This is…” she trails off, unsure of how to phrase her thoughts. Ikora squeezes her hand again, patient, encouraging. The Guardian uses her other sleeve to wipe at her cheeks, leans her head back, and takes a deep breath. When she speaks again her voice is thick. “If I fail, we die.”

 

Now, Ophiuchus can feel something akin to a stomach dropping. This was the reality. It lingered in the back of their minds, constantly jeering and taunting; dangling the promise of hope just beyond their reach. It was only by not speaking the truth that they were able to escape its weight; but with the Guardian’s words, the shadow of death, loss, and the ever-hanging question mark settled heavy in the air—and there was nothing they could do about it, except forge ahead.

 

And Ikora loses control once more. Her face falls just a bit, eyebrows working hard to keep the rest of her features from breaking. The muscles in her jaw grow taut and her throat bobs. This is not the first time she has done this; holding back the tears that have been awaiting release since her knees first touched ground on Io. She is struggling, but her grip on the young Guardian’s hand does not slacken. It tightens.

 

She draws on the Guardian’s strength, calling in a steady breath, and closes her eyes. “I’m afraid it has come to the point where I have nothing to teach you.”

 

Confused, the Guardian turns to face her fully, purple orbs shining. They do not glow as they once did, so long ago. They are a light purple, not the deep violet Ophiuchus has grown accustomed to. He suspects it is because she has not yet reclaimed the Void. Ikora does not see this, but she must have sensed her unease, for she says, “None of my training has prepared me for anything like this. My meditations, research, experience— _nothing_.” She sighs, shakes her head. “There is no council I can give, no path I can set you on. And you have no idea how much I wish I could.”

 

Her eyes open then, finding the Guardian’s. And Ikora smiles at her. She _smiles_. Not a half grin or watery smirk. A real, glowing smile. “You are our hope, Guardian. Our only chance. This is a journey you will need to take. But if you think this is cause for me to leave you,” she says, and Ophiuchus can see a hint of confidence return to her eyes. “then you are sorely mistaken.”

 

The child returns her smile, though it is weak and broken, and she tightens her hold on Ikora’s hand. Her Light burns just a little brighter.

 

The rest of the ride is spent in companionable silence.

 

xXx

 

An outpost called the Farm is their rendezvous, and they arrive under light of the moon. The camp is small, crowded with makeshift tents, stations and Guardians. It is vulnerable, and not at all as serviceable as the Tower. But, Ophiuchus thinks, it is better than nothing.

 

Most everyone is out cold, which is exactly what he was hoping for; Ikora has neither the physical nor mental capacity for anything other than sleep, and part of him worries she may be too tired to even do that. A few Guardians he does not recognize linger in various corners, speaking quietly with each other. They acknowledge her presence with small nods and salutes, but they do not approach. The Hunter introduces them to Suraya Hawthorne, who is more or less in charge here. She keeps everything in order, maintaining something resembling functionality. She is young, blunt and brash, yet kind when she shakes Ikora’s hand and welcomes her to the Farm.

 

“I wasn’t counting on housing so many of you,” she says, and shoots the Guardian a good-natured glare, “so we’re constantly squeezing people in as we go. That Cayde-6 kept bothering me to set you up somewhere now, so I just had him do it. I think it’s down by the river.”

 

“I’ll show you where that is,” the Guardian offers.

 

Ikora inclines her head. “Thank you, Hawthorne. What you’re doing for us is more than what we could ask.”

 

Hawthorne nods sharply, all business, then leaves to tend to a matter concerning some loose chickens. The Guardian leads them away from the balcony, down some stairs and to the river beneath it. There are a few tables clustered along the bank, a small stack of weapons, and an armor rack. Whomever is in charge of this station is most likely asleep now. Cayde is there on the opposite end, a small tent beside him, and Ophiuchus is not surprised that he is tossing rocks in the water. He sits on the ground, leaning against what looks to be a boulder that he rolled there. His Ghost whirrs as they get closer and he turns to them, grinning. “You found her. Good. Not the easiest thing to do; now I know you’re the Chosen One.”

 

The Guardian narrows her eyes playfully and shoots a bolt of Arc at his feet. His Ghost disappears and he jumps into a stance, chuckling softly. Ophiuchus has missed the sound. “But seriously. Thanks, kid. Go get some rest.”

 

As if on cue, the younger Hunter yawns wide. Cayde laughs again but she waves him off with a tired smile, and bids both her superiors a goodnight.

 

When she’s sure they are alone, Ikora asks, “has she slept at all?”

 

The Exo shrugs. “Couldn’t tell you. I’m spending most of my time securing resources and making sure we don’t starve out here. The rest of it is recon. Reports on the Legion.”

 

“Right.”

 

The season is late summer, but her hands come up to hug her arms when a soft breeze sweeps through—and the ambient sounds of running water and crickets fill the space she will not cross. Cayde has chosen well. He knows the river calms her. But at this point she will not allow its gifts to bring her weary mind to stillness. Ophiuchus knows she will hold on to the last vestiges of her strength until Cayde leaves.

 

“Have you?” he asks.

 

“Have I what?”

 

“Slept.”

 

A sardonic chuckle. “Hardly.”

 

The Hunter notices the distance. Her reluctance. But he stands there still. He intends to get her to talk. The stone in his hand spins in the air when he tosses it up. “So how ya doin'?” he tries. “Y’know… with all this?”

 

Tactful, Ophiuchus thinks. But Cayde is not known for his discretion, and in any event, it is a question she has no doubt been dreading. Brown orbs flick briefly to meet his blue ones, and she sighs. Deflates. “Well enough.” And that is about as close to a confession he will ever hear from her.

 

“Yeah. Right,” he nods, echoing her earlier sentiment. Then he frowns. Ophiuchus sees the exact moment he tires of skirting around the issue. “You’re not alone, y’know.”

 

She does not respond immediately and gives no indication to any confusion, which means she knows exactly what he is trying to do. Her own frown deepens, eyebrows drawing inward. “I am aware.”

 

“No, you’re not.”

 

“Cayde—”

 

“Look, I know you’re not gonna admit it—to me, Zavala, the kid, or even yourself. Ever. Even though you _owe_ it to yourself to feel. It’s just one of those things that you do not do.” Her nostrils flare, riled at being interrupted, but she does not correct him. Cayde runs a hand under his hood, and releases a puff of air. “But… I-I don’t know, man. You Warlocks are so uptight with your emotions, dangit.”

 

“What would you have me say, Cayde?” she suddenly snaps, but it is delivered without any of the desired brusque. She is exhausted, _drained_ , and his comments have struck home, the basement, and the backyard.

 

“You’re scared,” he shrugs, as though this was the simplest of facts, and scuffs his boot on the stone. “We all are. And honestly? Given the fact that we have _no Light_ —like, literally, none—I’d be concerned if you weren’t. There’s no shame in feeling fear.” Sniff. “You know me. I’m scared all the time.”

 

That earns a tiny, accidental chuckle out of her. He looks up, and she blinks and looks away. They’re silent for a beat more while he figures out what to say next. Ophiuchus is genuinely surprised she has not requested that he take his leave. “Well,” he deadpans, lobbing the rock into the river. “Anyway. I’m glad you’re here. We need you. If we’re really about to go to hell, then… least we’re goin’ together.”

 

Cayde begins to walk past her, shoulders sagging. When he moves to sidestep, Ikora reaches out to grab his forearm. At this point he is far stronger than her and could continue walking unperturbed if he wanted, but he halts, head jerking to her in surprise.

 

Ophiuchus could never have guessed the apology about to spill from her lips. “Cayde, I…” she starts, and her voice is small. Weak. She takes a breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped.” And she releases him, hand dropping at the same time he bends forward to engulf her smaller body in a tight hug.

 

She does not react at first. But slowly, stiffly, she brings her arms up to wrap loosely around him, and he pulls her even deeper into himself. “You’re not alone,” he whispers.

 

When she leans into him, Ophiuchus thinks that maybe, just maybe, for the first time in her second life, she is allowing herself to believe it.

 

Because she needs them, too.

 

xXx

 

She sleeps fitfully the first four nights. It takes an hour for her body to calm itself to the point where she can rest and her mind even longer to accept that she is safe enough to fall into unconsciousness. She dreams, Ophiuchus can tell, by the way she stiffens upon waking. She does not toss or turn—she never has. Ikora sleeps as though dead and wakes as if she never was at all. She dreams in the same way she suffers. Quietly. Alone. He does not ask what they are about.

 

The next ten days after her arrival are spent organizing resources and formulating strategy. The Farm is in a constant frenzy; the Lightless and the Lightless Lightbearers are running to and fro, Hawthorne and Zavala both barking orders to their people. Scouts come in every five hours reporting on Red Legion activity; apparently, they’ve received word that a Guardian has reclaimed their Light, and have been increasing security around the City Wall. Cayde is swamped directing Hunter traffic and running tactical on those missions. Ikora, blessedly, has fallen back into familiar routine; advising her Warlocks and assisting the scouts as they need her. The young Arcstrider is everywhere and nowhere; one minute she’ll be flying off in her ship to Traveler-knows-where, and then you turn around and she’s speaking with Tyra Karn. Yes, frenzy is the perfect word. Ophiuchus honestly expects _someone_ to drop dead sometime soon.

 

And in all this commotion, she has spoken to Commander Zavala only once. The first morning. As soon as the Titan had gotten wind of her arrival, he summoned a Vanguard meeting; the usual monotonous gathering. Plans, resources, intelligence. Ikora shared what they had discovered on Io; that Ghaul is intending to transform himself and his army into wielders of the Light. Cayde was at a loss for words, and Zavala’s face only grew darker. He asked each of them to do what they could strategy wise, and that they would meet again within the week. And that was it. There were no pleasantries, no inquiries about each other. Work. Business. Vanguard. Ophiuchus could not blame him, though. The Commander’s visage had been more cement than usual; lines chiseled through his forehead and mouth twisted into a permanent scowl. Even the Awoken markings on his face seemed agitated and restless. To free the City from Ghaul's grip… they needed something foolproof, and the pressure was killing them all.

 

But before they disbanded, Zavala snuck a concerned glance Ikora’s way. Ophiuchus is confident that he will speak with her as soon as time permits.

 

Time complied sooner than he’d thought. Ten days after the meeting. It was near dusk—Guardian activity was somewhat moderate given the time of day, but there were still plenty of people roaming about—and Ikora was in her corner by the river; Ophiuchus could sense the turmoil within her, churning and folding, and found that it was making him sick in ways that hurt to try and understand. He told himself he placed some distance out of respect and understanding—she hadn’t truly had a chance to be alone at all, and didn’t even seem to notice his absence—but was instantly overcome with shame at the utter relief that washed over him as he watched her from the bridge. Still trying to hold herself to pride.

 

“Ophiuchus.”

 

The sound of his name did not surprise him. The fact that it was accompanied by a certain voice, did. Zavala has only spoken to him directly a handful of times in the centuries he’s known him, and never when Ikora was not around. Yet there he stood now, in full armor, addressing him. How Ophiuchus did not hear him approach is a mystery. Nonetheless, he turns to answer. “Commander. What can I do for you?”

 

Apprehension contorts the Titan’s face into something entirely unnatural. He opens his mouth and he _hesitates_ , and Ophiuchus legitimately fears the end times are truly upon them now. Zavala blinks a few times before sighing, heavily. “How is she?”

 

If it had been any other time before the Fall, Ophiuchus would simply tell Zavala to ask her himself. He does not like “snitching,” as the kids say. But at this point, where Ikora is concerned, he is the only one of the two who will provide an honest answer. “Struggling,” he admits. “She will not allow herself to grieve properly.” Then something dawns on him. “Ikora has spent hours looking over maps, Zavala. She’s sent Warlocks to every post you’ve asked her to—"

 

Zavala raises a hand. “It is not the plan that concerns me, Ophiuchus. How is _she_?”

 

The Ghost blinks four times, processing this request. “I…” _don’t know if I have permission to tell you_ exactly _how she’s doing._ “She’s… not well.”

 

That was the single most unhelpful answer he has ever given in his lifespan, but Zavala nods, eyebrows knit together in a determined line, as though he understands exactly what he meant. “Thank you,” he says gently, and walks off; shoulders set, steps surprisingly light and yet deliberate in his march to his friend.

 

He approaches her from behind, and she jumps slightly when he places a gloved paw on her shoulder. Her head jerks up; she’s sitting on the boulder Cayde left, but moves to stand when she realizes who he is. Zavala says something and shakes his head, pushes her back down.

 

Ophiuchus never mastered the art of lip reading, but he can tell by their facial expressions—strained, forlorn, slowly losing composure—that the Awoken said something that broke her down entirely. She does not cry. She will not, and in this small, overcrowded social space, she will not allow herself to fall into him. But she latches onto his hand like it is a lifeline—and he stays, steadying her; letting her feed off of what little strength he has left to give.

 

As he sits there, floating, Ophiuchus cannot help but feel that if he had a mouth, it would be smiling softly.

 

xXx

 

“Well. This sucks.”

 

“ _Thank_ you, Cayde.”

 

“Anytime. Whenever you need the blunt, concise truth, just hit me up.”

 

Zavala pounds a fist into the table, wrinkling the map they were looking over, and the chicken Cayde is holding clucks and flaps its wings in fright. Ophiuchus is also startled, despite being tucked away in Ikora’s ear, but he understands the Commander’s anger. No matter what they came up with, the scenario would always end in losses. Too many losses.

 

“Zavala,” Ikora implores quietly.

 

He has the decency to look mildly ashamed, casting her an apologetic glance, but the frustration in the Titan’s face would not leave. Air rushes out of his nose. “We’re running out of time.”

 

“So then what you’re saying is,” Cayde starts, “we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And that _sucks_.”

 

“How _ever_ ,” the Awoken asserts, “now that we are together again, we just might stand a chance.”

 

“Uh huh. Why don’t I feel the optimism just rolling off of you?”

 

Zavala shoots the Hunter a withering glare.

 

“The fact is,” Ikora cuts in, “if we destroy that weapon, we will ignite a chain reaction that could send our sun into a… supernova…”

 

She trails off, looking into space, and Cayde has to snap his fingers four times to call her back.

 

“Well…” the Exo hesitates. He pets the chicken like it’s a stuffed bear, looking unsure of what to say for the first time tonight, and shrugs. “At least we have each other.”

 

Zavala makes a noise that sounds very much like a snort— _dangerously_ so, in fact—and the corner of his mouth lifts into a cynical smirk. “Indeed.” He then slips back into authority, looking his fireteam in the eyes. “We know what needs to be done. The Traveler must be freed.”

 

“I’m thinking the three of us and a big fat pile of explosives can get the job done,” Cayde offers. He sets the chicken down on the table and dusts his hands. Ready to get to work. “Look. I still have that Vex teleporter. It’s got limited range, so we’ll have to get a little too close for comfort.”

 

“Then we get inside the City walls for it to be effective,” Zavala agrees.

 

Ikora draws her brows inward. “But without the Light, an outright assault on the Wall is doomed to fail. We could—” she stops, closing her eyes, and breathes though her nose. If she had her Light, Ophiuchus is certain that its warm, nervous pulse would reverberate throughout the room. “There will be no coming back.”

 

She opens her eyes now, and though there is obvious fear, it is overshadowed by determination.

 

Cayde nods. “It’s worth it.”

 

The Warlock sighs. “How do we get in?”

 

“Y'know,” chimes a fourth voice, “the City Wall is kinda like this barn; plenty of places to slip in _unseen_.”

 

The Vanguard all look up, spotting one Suraya Hawthorne perched on the rafters and snuggling her rifle. She smirks at their dazed expressions. “So long as you know how, anyway.”

 

She slings her sniper on her back and drops from the roof, walking to the trio.

 

“You sure you’re not one of my Hunters?”

 

Hawthorne stops by Cayde and gives him a once over. “Hm. Not really into capes,” she smirks.

 

“Clearly.” He concedes. “Nice poncho.”

 

“You need to get your team into the City without raising any alarms,” she says, addressing Zavala. “My people and I can help you do that. We also happen to be pretty good at shooting bad guys.”

 

“Hawthorne,” says Ikora, “it’s one thing to put our lives on the line, but… this doesn’t have to be your fight. You’re not a—”

 

“Guardian?” the woman sneers.

 

Ikora goes silent, her face a grimace as though she had tasted something rather unpleasant, and Hawthorne scoffs.

 

“You think _you’ve_ cornered the market on sacrifice?” and she turns to look at each of them. “Really. You forget that we’ve had to survive _without_ the Light all our lives. Once upon a time, that big white ball in the sky was there for all of us. I think it’s about time we returned the favor,” she folds her arms tightly across her chest, her decision clear and final. “Guardians, or not.”

 

Zavala’s eyebrows raise ever so slightly, unused to being addressed in such a manner, but also partially impressed. Ophiuchus must admit that he is, too. Ikora’s face is grim, but she does not try to dissuade their host any further.

 

“That’s a great speech and all, but let’s not forget about the supernova and complete annihilation thingy!”

 

Zavala gestures to Cayde, agreeing. “If we can’t destroy the Almighty, we’ll have to disable its weapon. And that means getting a certain Guardian on board.”

 

“We’ll need a disguise if we’re going to fly right through a Cabal armada,” Ikora reminds them.

 

“If it’s a Cabal ship you need, there’s a base nearby full of 'em,” adds Hawthorne. “But it won’t be easy sneaking in.”

 

“Oh, we’re done sneaking,” Zavala drawls, voice heavy and low. “If there’s one thing I learned from Cayde, it’s the value of a grand entrance.”

 

The Exo in question starts at this admission, but quickly recovers. “This is great,” he nods rapidly, and holds his arms out. “Anyone want a hug? Anyone?”

 

Zavala and Hawthorne pointedly ignore him and Ikora hides a chuckle behind her hand. Something in the air lifts, and for the first time in months—despite the circumstances and the knowledge that they may not survive this fight—Ophiuchus finds himself at ease.

 

“Y’know, this is a big moment. You’re finally laughing at something I said, but at the same time, what I said wasn’t a joke.”

 

“I know,” the Warlock says simply, not bothering to wipe the smile from her face.

 

“You’re really hurting me, Rey. That hurt. Like, right here.”

 

 

xXx

 

 

The assault had been mostly successful up until the moment Cayde tried to activate the teleporter. Using one arm to work a two-arm job was proving rather difficult, so a battered and bruised Zavala had come over to help. That was when Ikora saw the cluster missiles.

 

_“Get down!”_

 

She had warned them in time, and the missiles hit no one directly, but they were still blasted backwards from the impact. Everything around them was white and fuzzy, and each of them slammed into the ground in ungainly heaps; Zavala lying crooked on his back, Ikora falling on her arm, and Cayde landing painfully on his leg.

 

“Ow! Ow, ow, ow! Someone help me up!”

 

“Ungh,” Zavala groans, but jumps up anyway, pushing through the dense cloud of radioactivity and to Cayde, despite the way his body obviously protested such a jarring movement.

 

Ikora made no sound other than a snarl once the haze cleared, revealing Legion soldiers making their way to the top of the stairs. From behind her, Cayde tosses one of his smoke grenades at the treads and she unclips her last frag, hurling it into the fog. They can see the shadows of a Colossi and two Centurion when it detonates, and hear the force of the blast killing a few Psions. Zavala cocks his Cabal blaster.

 

The minute the Colossi’s face breaks the smoke, they fire as one.

 

They beat them back enough for Cayde to leave the fight and focus on the teleporter; the Centurions are down and the Colossi is on its last leg, but there are ten Legionaries following their wake, and the Vanguard have just about run out of ammunition.

 

They hail the Guardian multiple times, and do not take turns in doing so. The line is overwhelmed between Hawthorne directing things on her end and their jumbled, frantic cries for assistance, so whenever her response does break through, it comes in unintelligible pieces.

 

Ikora is thrust into a rail after failing to escape a frag detonator in time, and Ophiuchus can hear a sickening _crack_ underneath her cry. He wants to phase, to heal her, but a Legionary advances on her, grabbing her arm and twisting it to the point where she shouts in anguish, and Zavala growls as he tackles the Cabal to the ground. While they wrestle, Ikora slumps against the rubble, turning her good palm up. Ophiuchus whips into existence immediately and begins working as fast as he can to repair the damage.

 

“I got it!” Cayde yells just moments before a Slug Rifle takes out his foot. Zavala finishes choking the life out of the Legionary, and he quickly helps Ikora to her feet, leaning her against the railing.

 

“We can’t… hold this position much longer,” she grunts into the radio. As the line cuts, a Psion speeds up the stairs and heads straight for Cayde, fist glowing purple. Zavala is on the move once again, slamming all of his weight into the Psion and crushing it beneath him when he hits the concrete floor. He slumps down, and does not get up.

 

“Zav… Zavala?” Cayde asks timidly. He had drawn his gun in time, but the Awoken beat him to it.

 

“Alive,” the Titan slurs, chest plate heaving giant breaths.

 

Ikora’s eyes are shining as she watches her friend, crippled and battle-weary, but there’s no time for reflection; a Centurion appears from behind them, floating on its jetpack, and a few more Cabal are climbing over the ledge. Cayde flips the Ace of Spades and shoots every hand that has a perch, sending them hurling back to the ground. Ikora draws the Centurion’s attention away from him with her scout rifle, and Zavala sits up as much as he can, covering the stairs with a sidearm.

 

“Ikora, Cayde,” and they all know what he’s going to say. Ophiuchus does not want him to. “If we don’t make it out of this alive… know that I’ve never been prouder to be part of your fireteam.”

 

Then, to his horror, Ikora also states her farewell. “If we have to die, at least we’ll die in the shadow of the Traveler, old friend.” They share a sad smile.

 

“We’re about to die, and you’re still making speeches?!” Cayde shrieks, equal parts annoyed and disbelieving. Still the same old Cayde-6, even in the face of death. And death is indeed staring them all down; the Centurion lands with a loud thump just in front of Zavala. Its shields are barely damaged. Neither Hunter nor Warlock will be able to stop it in time.

 

Lightning flashes around them twice.

 

The first time it was barely noticeable, a tickle on the edges of their vision, but the second flash blinded them all; and when they blinked, the Arcstrider was there, beating the Cabal back with her staff. It falls in three powerful strikes, and dies the moment she impales it through the chest. The Light recedes, and she takes a couple of breaths. When she looks at each of them, her face falls, stricken.

 

 

“I’m…” she pants. “I’m sorry I couldn’t—”

 

“S’alright, kid,” Cayde assures from his position on his back, sticking two thumbs up.

 

“We can’t make the jump,” Zavala says between coughs, even though it’s more than obvious. “It’s all on you now, Guardian. Save the Traveler. Save us all.”

 

xXx

 

When the Guardian jumps and the teleporter fizzles out, they all let out a collective sigh of relief, and sag even further into the ground.

 

“She’ll do it,” Ikora says after a while, nodding to herself, then says it louder. “She _will_ do it.”

 

Zavala’s eyes grow steely in resolve as he echoes, “She will.”

 

“Of _course_ , she will. She’s _my_ Hunter.”

 

xXx

 

 

Neither of them knows how long they sit there. It’s dark. It’s been dark all day. Legion machines have been polluting the sky with large, black clouds of smoke, and distant sounds of thunder are echoing from somewhere, though it is most likely not natural thunder.

 

No more Cabal appear. No one speaks. No one really moves, unless it is to shift themselves into a more comfortable position. Their Ghosts have healed many of the more serious injuries, but sore muscles still scream in agony, and the scars they bear from this day will only heal given time. Zavala sleeps, Ikora thinks, and Cayde studies the Ace of Spades. Ophiuchus is in his Warlock’s ear. They lay there, and they rest, for the time being.

 

Then, the City shakes. Once. Twice. It happens again, more powerful, knocking the scaffolding from off two nearby buildings. They look to each other, dazed and bemused.

 

Ikora gazes up into the black sky, light rain droplets falling on her skin. “She’s fighting him,” she whispers, sounding truly hopeful for the first time in months. Zavala and Cayde give weary smiles.

 

 

xXx

 

Despite the constant quakes and the flashes of Solar, Arc, and Void energy dancing across the sky, Zavala is asleep once more when Hawthorne finds them. She and her men haul him and the others to a Legion ship that they somehow commandeered, and fly them a safe distance away from the battle; to the rubble of Tower North.

 

The sight of what was once their base of operations—their station, their _home_ —being in such a state of _ruin_ almost brings Ophiuchus to depression. The Hall was obliterated. The courtyard gone. He knows what happened to the Speaker’s observatory. Ghaul had dealt a mighty blow to the Tower; they cannot traverse the upper levels without risking its collapse. But somehow, thankfully, the Hangar is intact enough to where they can touch down, and there is where they remain until their young hero defeats Dominus Ghaul.

 

 

xXx

 

 

When the Light returns, the floods bear down on each of them in a manner not unlike a physical assault, nearly suffocating in its intensity. It does not hurt, but the rush does not cease, and Ophiuchus loses his vision quite a few times. It lasts for ten solid seconds, and it fills Ikora, Cayde, and Zavala to the point where they all have to double over and catch their breath afterwards.

 

As they recuperate, Ophiuchus takes a moment to adjust himself to the change. He feels restored. Complete. But something is… off. Not wrong, precisely, but… he cannot place a word to the sensation. The entity is most definitely Light. The signature is there. But he cannot deny that it feels—

 

“—weird. Anybody else feel weird?”

 

Cayde is the first to speak ( _wheeze_ ), bent over on his knees, panting like a dog, and Ophiuchus is not quite certain at all how that is possible.

 

Ikora and Zavala mirror him in stance, only she is braced on a crate and he on a wall. They can’t speak for having to heave. Hawthorne eyes them all with a strange blend of concerned skepticism. “Well, _I’m_ feeling weird.”

 

“Don’t,” Cayde gasps, “please, don’t do that.” He gives up trying to stand and carefully sets himself down on his stomach, face to the floor.

 

Gingerly, Ikora also moves to sit on the crate, willing her body to adapt. _In, out, in, out._ Mind centered. Eyes closed. Then they open. Lips pull into a gentle frown. “Something is not right.”

 

Zavala, evidently, has decided he does not need to rest, and draws himself up to his full height. He looks to his counterparts before closing his eyes, appearing to be calling on the Light. The moment it manifests into Void energy, he jumps back, quickly and suddenly; and because it is very unlike him to do so, everyone else in the room jumps as well. All were staring, and all was silent.

 

Ophiuchus had expected one of two things to happen: a) absolutely nothing, and b) for the Ward of Dawn to surround the Titan.

 

But in his right hand, the Commander held a large, glowing Void shield.

 

Cayde laughs, sprawling out on his back. “Oohh, we’ve got some problems.”

 

xXx

 

 

The decision to relocate was both instantaneous and obvious. They had every intention of restoring Tower North, but once they had salvaged what they could from the wreckage, Zavala declared the building and five miles of surrounding area to be off limits and strictly prohibited. Under no circumstances was anyone allowed near even the perimeter. The move was taxing both physically and emotionally for everyone—Ghost, Guardian and worker.

 

Thankfully, they did not have to start from dust this time. The east-facing side of the Wall’s ramparts were sizeable and mostly operational; all they needed to do was reconfigure the building and its satellites for Guardian-specific purposes. In fact, the bulk of their time was spent simply moving everyone in. The number of Guardians who had gathered at the Farm were considerably less than their ranks before Towerfall; but as word spread of their victory over the Red Legion, Guardians and citizens began trickling back into the City. Within six months, they were back in business.

 

The Vanguard were insistent upon holding remembrance for the fallen. Zavala stayed up for countless nights gathering every possible name he could, Guardian and citizen, arranging them to be carved into giant stone slabs that were to be placed in the City’s center courtyard. They recovered every body they could from around the City, but countless more were still lost in the wilds, and more still that were beyond salvaging. The service was about two hours in length; a speech given by each member of the Vanguard, a tribute from Lord Shaxx, a few statements from a group of Guardians, and even an appearance from Lord Saladin himself. Colorful fireworks lit the evening sky, and many Lightbearers added their own spontaneous flair by illuminating the area with their Light. It was a very sad, yet very beautiful memorial.

 

Ophiuchus hopes he will never have to attend another one, ever again.

 

 

xXx

 

It does not take anyone long to deduce that the Traveler had changed. If the return of the Light was not obvious enough, then the fragmented shards in orbit around the sphere—along with various Light-filled craters now penetrating its surface—should be quite telling. After all these years, it has finally awoken.

 

Ikora surmises that is why the Light is so unpredictable now; the fullness of its power is now available to them, unrestricted and without limitations. There is much, possibly unlimited potential and countless unlocked secrets and abilities, and so she encourages every Guardian to push their limits, to test their strength. This takes months. Even the Zavala has some degree of difficulty in dealing with the shift. For some, like their young Hero, it is as simple as putting on a fresh pair of socks. For others, there is frustration, anger, and no small quantity of explosions. The Tower shakes every few hours, and many a scorched Guardian come trekking through the courtyard at the end of the day, shoulders drooping and head hanging. Ophiuchus is guilty of laughing. His Guardian is, too.

 

Ophiuchus is instantly aware that something is different about Ikora when he catches her shoulders quivering one day. He was beside her, and looked around to find the source of her amusement; a Titan speaking with Hawthorne, whose armor everyone knew was a shining red and gold, but was now sporting a black and dull Swordflight set. That right there was probably the result of the latest Dawnblade test.

 

Ikora’s smile is slight, and would not be noticed by any but the most observant of eyes, but it is there, nonetheless. He cannot say exactly what is different about her in that moment, but one day, the young Arcstrider—no, the Nightstalker comes to speak with her, and Ophiuchus understands. She has become more open. She is… aware of her fallibility. He does not know what to make of it at first. She and the Guardian discuss many things, but the topic of the Traveler’s wake is soon upon them—as it is with the rest of the City—and Ikora _admits_ that there is knowledge beyond her understanding.

 

“For the first time in centuries, I have no idea what the future holds. Isn’t it exciting?” Her honey-gold eyes are alight with glee. Pure, unadulterated wonderment bleeds into her voice. The Guardian smiles back at her.

 

_Isn’t it exciting?_

 

No, no, it is not. It’s terrifying. Ever since he met Ikora, Ophiuchus has never had need to fear what would happen next, even if she did not tell him beforehand. _She_ knew, and she would always handle it, and that was enough for him.

 

But because lies do not sit well with him, even when he is the author, Ophiuchus must admit that he is a little excited simply because of the fact that Ikora is excited. Very excited. Extremely excited. The unknown, the incomprehensible, the boundless knowledge; he can clearly recall a very specific point in time when she would have rejected all of this. But now, after everything, she owns a brand new set of eyes and ears. She understands far more from the Red War than from decades of training or experience. She is receptive, eager to learn, and willing to accept what is beyond her control.

 

Her mind, essentially, has been reborn.

 

Yes. It is very exciting.

 

xXx

 

But as the days turn into weeks and the weeks turn into months, he notices something that has not changed.

 

Their stalemate.

 

Twenty-two thousand and forty-one days.

 

He does not sense any animosity on her part; and that is either because she truly is not mad with him or she is too consumed with the goings on of life in the new Tower. But he does feel something more. Loneliness. Abandonment. He feels it every time she converses with a Guardian. Every time she sits at a Consensus meeting. Every time she laughs and smiles wide.

 

When they’re alone with each other, the feeling is amplified.

 

Lord Shaxx has asked the Vanguard and a handful of Guardians to keep an eye out for potential Crucible arenas. He does not approach the Vanguard in person, but leaves a notice on each of their stations. Each one of them answers the call. Zavala also deemed certain parts of the City hazardous, but gave Shaxx permission to test the grounds in Midtown for Crucible-grade destruction. Cayde sent the young Champion and a squad of Hunters to Nessus to speak with an AI called Failsafe; they come back with positive news of two additional maps.

 

In extension to their regular meditations and assigned duties, Ikora instructs her Warlocks to scout specific sectors throughout the system and the EDZ; most of which are regions Shaxx had mentioned to her. She adds a few areas of her own, including Javelin-4 on Io. Asher would most certainly mind.

 

Ophiuchus takes it upon himself to track each Guardian’s progress, and directs them whenever Ikora is busy elsewhere. He genuinely enjoys being part of this process.

 

Or maybe it’s just that he finally has something important to do.

 

Whatever the case, he does not dwell on it.

 

Occasionally, Shaxx will come to the Bazaar to thank Ikora personally for her help, and to ask about any further findings. She’ll give him a list of planets and regions she assigned to be investigated, and he’ll either approve or suggest they look elsewhere. _“Not enough room to maneuver. They’ll be throwing grenades, you know?”_ And she will adjust her search accordingly.

 

Ophiuchus is with her in the library, now, her new library, and she’s pouring over _On Circles_. Her Warlocks would oft find her in here instead of the Bazaar, and in a few short days this open-door den of peace would unfortunately become another social hub. She’s in here quite a bit, doing nothing but research for hours at a time. Ever since the Traveler's revival was made apparent, Ikora has found it necessary to revise all twelve volumes of her work. She has not neglected her duties in the slightest, but the rewrite is consuming large portions her days. Thankfully, one of her more experienced students offered to assist her while she is in this period of revision. As such, they are currently alone.

 

“I wonder…” and she mumbles some incoherent thought about metaphysics, though it’s not necessarily for him to hear. She’s been talking to herself a lot, recently. Thinking out loud and such. Not that it’s new; she’s done this plenty of times before. But the sound of her voice—so lilting and carefree—is foreign to Ophiuchus. He does not know how to feel about that.

 

He floats in place a safe distance from her; close enough to read, but too far for her to notice him when she turns. Not that she actively seeks him out anymore. He hovers quietly, taking and bringing new materials as she needs them.

 

Loneliness. Abandonment.

 

When they’re alone with one another, the feeling suffocates him.

 

The only time he doesn’t feel it is when they’re helping Shaxx with the Crucible.

 

xXx

 

She was just about to retire for the night when Chalco Yong brought Sagira to her station. In lieu of a greeting, The Hunter silently walked up beside her, placed the Ghost atop a book Ikora had just closed, and looked at her. Purposely.

 

Brother Vance has been trying to reach out to the Tower for months, now, ever since they had finished renovations. He claims the Vex are “on the move,” and Osiris “has yet to return.” The Vex are always doing something weird, and the latter could mean a multitude of things, so the Vanguard never responded to his calls. But now, with Osiris’ Ghost lifeless before them, Ophiuchus wonders whether they were too quick to dismiss Vance’s stories as hearsay.

 

Chalco certainly thinks they were. Ikora had not asked her to go to Mercury. The Warlock stares at Sagira a long while, tired and decidedly ignoring the way her Hidden was scowling. Ophiuchus, overcome with curiosity, phases unbidden and begins a scan. “She’s still alive,” he says, surprised. He then attempts to wake her, with no results. The Ghost didn’t even spark. He tries again. “Nothing.” He turns to the Guardians. “Perhaps Phasma could try as well.”

 

Ikora nods, still studying the shell. Ophiuchus can see traces of concern in her eyes, mixed with fear.

 

“Well?” the Hunter prompts after an elongated silence, impatient.

 

Ikora cuts her eyes. “What else did you find?”

 

“Dust. And Vex. You know what’s over there.”

 

“Did Vance say anything to you?”

 

“Pretty sure he didn’t even know I was there.”

 

Ikora sighs. Get in and get out. So very much a Chalco thing to do.

 

“So we agree there’s definitely a problem on Mercury, right?” the Hunter inquires, very nearly taunting.

 

The Warlock scoops Sagira in both hands, turning to leave the Bazaar. “I’ll discuss this with one of my confidants in the morning.” Chalco scoffs, and Ikora gives in with a chuckle. “Yes, you were right. Good work, Chalco.”

 

xXx

 

As it turns out, Osiris had gotten himself stuck in the future, and Vex from alternate timelines were amassing on Mercury, evidently on a mission to reshape the universe. Or something like that.

 

The young Hunter sees to this. She is tired of bouncing around from planet to planet every two days, Ophiuchus can tell, but she goes at Ikora’s insistence. She takes Sagira back to Brother Vance, and with her guidance, the Nightstalker rescues Osiris and puts the Vex to bed. For the most part. Once she and the former Vanguard Commander defeat the Infinite Mind Panoptes, they meet with Ikora at the gate to the Infinite Forest.

 

When their eyes connect, both Warlocks stare, unmoving for a few awkward moments. Ikora seems hesitant to be the first to speak. Ophiuchus cannot say why. But Osiris snaps out of whatever trance he was in, and makes the first move, a kind smile on his face. “The Vex Mind is destroyed, and the path to their dark future along with it.” He gives the Hunter a proud nod.

“And in case you were wondering, our Guardians were amazing!” Sagira gushes.

 

Phasma does not take kindly to that, for whatever reason. Before she can chirp back, however, the girl covers her bulb with a palm, speaking softly to her.

 

Ikora steps up. “Osiris,” she greets, the name sounding alien on her tongue. “It’s been... a very long time.” Wordsmith. Ophiuchus supposes the sudden reunion has deprived her of her abilities. It is understandable; the very last words they exchanged were not ones of farewell.

 

Osiris smiles. “Too long, my…” he falters, then chuckles. “I… I was going to say, ‘student,’ but, well… that word is too small for you now.”

 

Now, in Ophiuchus’ opinion, she outgrew the word in her last few years under his apprenticeship. Be that as it may, what Osiris just said was one of the highest of compliments. Ikora notices as well; the corners of her lips curve into a grin. “I’ve had other teachers. Time. Pain. A Guardian who makes a habit of the impossible,” she glances to the Hunter, “who I am proud to call a friend.” The girl smiles back, bright and wide.

 

“The world _has_ changed,” Osiris notes.

 

“So has the City,” says Ikora, and Ophiuchus blinks. “You could come back with me.”

 

The older Warlock shakes his head sadly. “No. No, my place is here now.” He looks to the gate behind him. “We stopped the Vex this time, but many equations lead to the same solution. If they were ever to find another…” He turns to the Guardian, eyes beaming. “Besides, I predicted many things, but I never saw you. Now, we have a future!”  The Hunter inclines her head.

 

Content, Osiris begins climbing the stairs. “The pathway to the Forest will be open if you ever need to find me,” he says once he reaches the entrance, looking at the Hunter, then to Ikora, “…or, if you want to talk.”

 

Ikora nods. Her eyes shine, and it is not a reflection of the sun. “I’d like that.”

 

xXx

 

She does not take Osiris up on his offer for a long while. They have no further communications with Mercury aside from the Guardians who frequent the planet. Despite the silence, she seems satisfied with the arrangements. It really wasn’t much, but their conversation did go extremely well, considering. Her Light burns a bright, wild fire, but is contained only because of the many centuries she spent honing her control.

 

She is happy.

 

She claims the Traveler is giving her visions.

 

Her ventures with thanatonautics suddenly start back up, and she instructs every Guardian to further seek out the Light. Her attempts are sparse, thanks to her continuing work with _On Circles_ , however, it is no less excruciating to deal with when she _does_ do it.

 

She dies. He revives her. She thinks out loud. He says nothing. He is afraid. He will not say anything about it.

 

Ophiuchus waits. Waits for her to stop. For her to speak. She never does.

 

He wonders, not for the first time, how it got this far.

 

xXx

 

He’s made up his mind. This is the longest-standing grudge he has ever had the displeasure of indulging.

 

Twenty-one thousand, three hundred and fifty-seven days. _On Circles_ has long since been revised and republished. She has received numerous reviews speaking nothing but high praise.

 

He congratulates her. Because he is genuinely proud of the time and effort she put into this. Of the long, long, sleepless nights she’s endured, and her dedication to see this through to the end.

 

She does not respond. Doesn’t even acknowledge him with a hum. She peers at him from over the rim of her mug, those honey-gold eyes shining and unreadable.

 

And she returns her attention to the report.

 

Ghosts know the vastness of human emotions, so it is no surprise to Ophiuchus when he feels something inside him break.

 

xXx

 

Ophiuchus does not believe in holding things against people. But this… _thing_ Ikora is dealing with is driving him to his limit. It is not as though she has forgotten about him. She _looked at him_ just a few days ago, and refused to say anything. He has tried to coax a reply out of her, however small, so he can understand what went wrong. But if there is one single, vital, defining trait of the great Warlock Ikora Rey, it is her stubbornness.

 

Let it be so, if that is her wish. He has come to terms with it, finally. As long as they are repelling the darkness, fighting for the good of all in the name of the Traveler, he will take no more issue.

 

Twenty-two thousand, two hundred and fifty-seven days.

 

xXx

 

He listens. He hurts, but he listens. She’s talking about the Vex in that subdued enthusiasm she always has. Chuckling to herself. It almost makes him think things are halfway normal for once.

 

But then he remembers the comment she made about him just last night to some City children, _he’s a quiet thing,_ and returns to his indifference.

 

He is not quiet by choice. The entirety of this ordeal is the result of her emotional discord. But she is a fool if she thinks he cannot play this game, this tiresome battle of arrogance. Unstoppable Force meets Immovable Object. Which one of the two is he?

 

He wipes his mind clean of any errant thoughts; they are so loud he thinks he may have spoken with his mouth at some point, but she continues without noticing him. Muttering, flipping through the database, pacing back and forth, and the like.

 

He listens. He watches. He always does. She is his Guardian, and he is her Ghost; and he loves her, no matter how hard it is to be in her presence. That’s just the way things are. He deflates a little at the thought.

 

“What do you think, Ophiuchus?”

 

He caught the question and the musings before it. She looks to him, expectantly, patiently, asking _what he thinks._

 

It has been twenty-two thousand three hundred and three days. Sixty human years since she has so much as acknowledged him. Sixty years…

 

“You’re not just my Ghost,” she says, voice tender as though she hadn’t been completely shutting him out. “We were friends, once. I want to know what you think.”

 

The words won’t come. He wants them to, but soon they’re all the wrong things to say at this moment. _We were friends_ once _?_ He scoffs _to himself. We_ were _companions. We_ were _inseparable. We are bound at the_ soul _. I was sent to find you, my Chosen, to help bring peace to a universe at war. To fill the galaxy with Light and life. I was your shadow, and you were my best friend. That is who we once were._

 

He feels anger, quick and hot. Joy and hope, unabashed. Selfishness also sneaks its way into his being at the thought of Osiris, but neither emotion can decide who gets to take a seat. Everything is too much and not enough, so when he does speak, his voice is strained.

 

“I’m glad you asked,” he tries.

 

Her brow arches a fraction at the sound. She suspects, but otherwise remains silent.

 

He quickly brightens his tone. “The Vex’s command over simulations are rather difficult to understand; and the information we have thus far is still too young to be proven very substantial. You could try the device, but I don’t think you were wrong in overlooking it.” Then, because he doesn’t trust himself to say anything else, “I trust your judgement.”

 

And he convinces himself that it is the truth.

 

She laughs a soft, quiet breath. The sound annoys him greatly. “I wouldn’t have asked your opinion if I believed my judgement was enough.”

 

And it was because she kept _talking_ , he told himself. It was because she kept talking— _casually_ , with _familiarity_ —and _not_ because he’d finally lost his temper, that he asks, “why now?” with such a venomous bite that the both of them jump.

 

Her smooth forehead wrinkles up when her brows lift in a rare loss of control. Shock. “Why now?” she repeats.

 

“Why now.” He asserts, and this time it is not a question. “Do you know how long it’s been?”

 

Yes, she knows how long it’s been. She is far too self-aware to not at least have an estimate. And she cannot play dumb to what he is really asking. She can’t. And she knows she can’t. She releases a silent sigh through her nose, face hardening just a touch, and looks away.

 

No. She will answer him.

 

“Ikora.” Her name is a command when he speaks it, and she does not heed. “ _Ikora_. How can you _justify_ th—"

 

“I cannot justify it,” she cuts in suddenly, almost impatiently, and Ophiuchus bristles as her Light flares. The hard line of her jaw is set, and her eyes solidify into a dark, stony kind of gold. Attempting to regain control. His irritation only grows at the notion.

 

“Do you understand,” he says, because it’s out now and he might as well get it over with, “that we have not spoken a single civil word to one another in over fifty years, and now you expect me to continue on _giving my thoughts_ as though the issue has _rectified itself_?”

 

Four beats pass with no answer.

 

His shell spins and shrinks, and his impatience increases with every second she does not speak. The woman takes her time in answering, posture absolutely perfect and eyes like the steel of a Sunsinger blade. For a terribly tumultuous moment, Ophiuchus thinks she is testing him, almost goading him to try and force her hand.

 

Then, in a deceptively cool tone of voice, “thanatonautics is a sophisticated method of investigation.”

  

Well.

 

She never was one to beat around the bush.

 

“You knew how I felt about that,” he counters.

 

Her eyes flash. “It wasn’t your life.”

 

And that stings him. It was an incredibly insensitive thing to say. Of course it wasn’t his life. Guardians and Ghosts are two entirely autonomous beings, separate minds working together towards a common goal. At least, that’s how the Ghosts put it. But with Ikora, Ophiuchus has never felt that segregation in the way they described. He was with her, and she with him. They were one.

 

She knows this.

 

He locks up. It takes him a moment to force the words out. “Regardless. It is dangerous and unnecessary. There were far more fruitful ventures you could have undertook.”

 

A scoff. “There would’ve been varying degrees of risk no matter what I did. And unless something happens to you, or I, for whatever reason, find myself in a dark—”

 

“Please don’t do that!” he nearly shouts, and she stops, taken aback. “Please, just… don’t _speak_ it.”

 

She regards him curiously, and he is confused at the expression. Is this a revelation for her? That he would value her life above all else? “You’ll always bring me back,” she finishes, less defensive, now, and sighs. The question in her face turns into disquiet. She does not speak for a long while, and Ophiuchus allows himself to slip back into patience. Waiting for her.

 

“I had grown used to my own silence after five months.” Her voice is even, but the words jar his mind. He does not have time to process it before she continues, “I hadn’t meant for it to escalate to that point, but, it had become… matter of course.”

 

Ophiuchus floats. Blinks. He figured out about five minutes after the fact that the silence was her way of exerting control over the situation. Dealing punishment. But now, he learns it ran far deeper: she had preferred it.

 

He cannot recognize his own voice when he speaks. “It was more than silence. You ignored me. Purposely.”

 

Ikora is unflinching in her answer, and Ophiuchus forces himself to meet her iron gaze. “Yes.”

 

He pretends the ache he feels is indignation. He has to shoot it down. It doesn’t work. “And the Red War?”

 

The iron melts at the half-baited-half-sincere question, as he knew it would. She nearly ducks her head, undoubtedly remembering the way she’d clung to him. “The Traveler was lost. The City was taken. I had… I couldn’t anticipate Ghaul. Everything pointed to our extinction, and yet… I wasn’t satisfied with hiding. I had to fight. I knew that meant putting you at risk as well. Holding you was an act of reassurance. A safeguard.”

 

He does not doubt that this is the truth, but the way her jaw ticks holds him back from commenting. A breath of air escapes her lips when she realizes he will not respond.

 

“… you were… my last connection to the Light.”

 

Her lips hardly move, her voice low and unsure. It is unlike her. But Ophiuchus has excellent hearing, and while he caught the words, he stilled at the admission; allowing the significance of what she was saying to sink in.

 

Then, “you’re lying.”

 

Her head snaps up, brows drawn and honey-gold eyes shining with a barely concealed hurt that tore right through Ophiuchus, and the Ghost immediately regrets his words. Quickly, he explains, “That can’t be all. I could understand if I'd had the Light at the time, but I didn’t. It was gone. The connection no longer _existed._ I know because I couldn’t _see_ you _._ ”

 

She knows exactly what he means. Understanding is there well before he concludes his reasoning, but the hurt would not move. Somehow, Ophiuchus thinks he made it worse.

 

He thinks he sees her eyes flutter then, but comes to realize that she’s _batting_ them. Crying. Going to. Trying not to. Ophiuchus is scared.

 

“Ikor—”

 

“ _You_ were all I had, Ophiuchus.”

 

He can do nothing but float. Lost for words. Taken aback. He knew there was a reason she held onto him in the wilds, but… he was all she had? Truly? Had the loss of the Traveler reminded her of his existence, then? Or did those trials force her to realize the pettiness of this standoff? Then, some place in the deep, selfish reaches of his mind questions whether her reunion with Osiris had played a part in her sudden need to pick his brain.

 

Ikora is watching him. He can see this, but it does not register. His mind is still on other things, other questions, and he feels something else trying to touch upon it, prodding at it with light, seeking touches. She is more or less composed, eyes still glistening, watching him intently. Ghosts do not have facial expression, per se, but she must have seen something in his bearing. Something doubtful, or inquiring.

 

_Osiris had nothing to do with this._

 

It is with great alarm that he realizes she had not spoken with her mouth. _I saw you watching me; you seemed to be listening rather attentively. I figured I would ask what you were thinking about._

 

Again, the Ghost is rendered speechless for a few moments. He knew one of them would eventually have to speak up, but this whole encounter has happened in such an out of the blue manner. He cannot keep up with all these revelations. He gathers himself, then quietly, timidly, he touches back, _Was I truly all you had?_

_Yes, Ophiuchus._

If he had a body, it would collapse. She was not angry with him. He was still her friend. In his mind, he can feel a sharp sting of hurt, though it doesn’t belong to him. She can still hear his thoughts. _I had no other way of thinking,_ he imparts. _I couldn’t have known what you thought of me._

 

He sounds pained even to his own mind. He cuts himself off from saying more, but Ikora expresses a quiet, albeit hesitant encouragement for him to continue. _I was angry at you for a time, then at myself. I thought I was being irrational and overbearing. But I began to blame myself when I realized you had moved on.  It—your silence hurt me, Ikora. Immensely._

_Ophiu—_

_I know. I know. And I will not ask for anything more than what you’re able to give._

 

Atonement. Reconciliation. His patience for her is limitless.

 

She stares at him for too long. The next time she speaks, it’s with her mouth. “An apology will not suffice.”

 

He blinks once. “It’s twenty-two thousand days overdue—!”

 

“Yes! I know, but,” she bites, then sighs. Her jaw clenches, and she looks to her books. Shyness? No. Something else.

 

She exhales though her nose a total of eight times. “What can I do?” she asks quietly, and he is so in awe of the words that it takes him a minute to remember to respond. It is in no way, shape, or form an apology; and to be honest, Ophiuchus never expected that she’d give one. But it is something.

 

_“Then maybe it’s not up to you.”_

 

“Talk to me,” he says, and it’s too eager, too hopeful. He doesn’t care. “Please.”

 

There’s a certain kind of sadness in her expression when she smiles. Not regret, but something close to it. “I can do that,” she says, “but you can start by answering my first question truthfully.” And the smile will weaponize itself into a grin; small, lethal, yet gentle.

 

Of course she’d know he lied. She could always tell with him, and he with her. Decades of not speaking have done much to enhance their ability to read each other, though he could not predict her sudden change of heart. But she wants him to speak, now. To talk. To give his thoughts and help her think up a conclusion. All at once, Ophiuchus is reminded of the nights they would exhaust; sometimes talking, most times solving a problem. Ikora would be stumped, Ophiuchus would offer inference, and they would bounce ideas off of each other until she eventually figured it out. But it was not the problem solving that thrilled him; it was simply the fact that he was talking with his Guardian. His best friend. His Light.

 

He has missed her, so very much.

 

And so, he speaks.

 

xXx

 

_About 200 years before Destiny…_

One week to the day she was resurrected. She lays in her bed, holding him on her stomach. Moonlight trickles through the thin curtains, creating patterns of starlight on her duvet. She pets him, carefully brushing her fingers over his shell, between his cones, and over his eye. He cannot feel her ministrations, but is comforted by her actions nonetheless. “I want a name,” she says thoughtfully.

 

She is nameless. The boys in the Crucible have taken to calling her ‘baldy’ on account of her short hair. Others refer to her as ‘Warlock,’ or ‘Tyro.’ She does not tell them to stop, but Ophiuchus feels her intense desire to tell them off. He has come very close to doing so multiple times, but he does not wish to draw even more negative attention to her.

 

Ophiuchus perks up. “There are many kinds,” he says excitedly. “Which would you prefer?”

 

The Warlock is silent for a moment. Then she makes a shrugging motion. “I’m not sure.”

 

She sounds very nearly dejected. Ophiuchus is resolved to remedy that. “There are names designated after nature, historical figures, and other words. Do you know who Osiris is?”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“He is named after an Egyptian god. It means, ‘strong with eyesight.’”

 

“And yet he needs glasses to read small print.”

 

Ophiuchus tries not to laugh. “Focus.” She giggles quietly. “Iris was a Greek goddess of the rainbow,” he offers. His Guardian makes a disinterested sound. “Athena was the goddess of—”

 

“No more gods, please, Ophiuchus.”

 

“Oh.” He pauses. “Okay.” He racks his mind for something else. “Kendra—”

 

“No.”

 

“Cora is of Greek origin—”

 

“I said—!”

 

“It’s not a god! It means, ‘maiden.’”

 

She hesitates. “… eh. It sounds nice, but…”

 

“Iris is pretty, too.”

 

“… rainbow…?”

 

“Something tells me you’re thinking of a warrior type of name.”

 

“Hm…” she intones. She does not say anything else for a whole minute. Then, “I like, ‘Ikora.’”

 

“With a ‘C’ or a ‘K?’”

 

“’K.’”

 

Ophiuchus is silent for a moment. “I can’t find that name in any records. We have no idea what it means.”

 

“Then make it mean something,” she hums.

 

He thinks. He feels the numbing cool of the Void, weak and inexperienced. He sees patterns from the moon, littered across the bed. His own eye reflects a dim glow off the sheets. “Light,” he whispers, mostly to himself, but she hears him; her fingers still for a brief second, then resume their ministrations.

 

“Light,” she repeats. “I like it.”

 

Ophiuchus buzzes with joy. “Ikora. I like it, too. I think it fits you.” He rises to look at her, and her hands fall to her stomach. “Humans traditionally have a second name, as well. I am not sure how they are chosen, but I would like to pick one for you.”

 

Her eyes glow softly in the dark and she is tired, but she nods and gives him a grin. “’Rey’ is the Spanish word for King. It’s derived from the word, ‘regere,' meaning ‘to keep straight, lead, and rule.’”

 

Ikora blushes. “I’m no leader.”

 

Ophiuchus nudges her cheek softly. “Not now, but you will be, Ikora Rey, my strong Light. I know you will.”

 

She smiles at him.

**Author's Note:**

> Whether you wanted it or not, you’ve stepped into the end of this fic, Guardian. So let’s get to offering kudos, one by one. lollypoopdeck. From what I can gather, she commands the next WWOW installment from an imperial laptop just outside of Rubicon. She’s well protected. But with the right team, we can punch through her defenses, get this next fic out, and break her grip on freehold. The dream of the City is stronger today because of your efforts xP
> 
> But yes, I might go into Forsaken and the Dawning in another fic. I'm in the process of testing a few concepts right now, actually. I can't say when it'll be up, if it will be up, but it definitely will not be as long as this one xP
> 
> If it seems Ikora is at odds concerning her opinions of Osiris, that is partly intentional. I’m trying to hold on to a theory that Ikora still holds Osiris in very high regard despite his fall. I was rewatching CoO cutscenes and listening very intently to the dialogue, and I’ve concluded that she does, but she doesn’t want to admit it. In her first appearance, she’s talking to us about Osiris being “the man who taught me what it means to be a Warlock,” but when she talks to Brother Vance she’s like, “I’m honestly surprised how much faith you can put in a man who questions everything,” and I’m like, grabbing her by the shoulders and sitting her down because, Ikora, honey, let’s stop with this passive aggression. You miss him. He was your friend and teacher. We get it. We love you <3
> 
> If anyone is familiar with the lore tab Pressure, you’ll notice I accidentally stole Phasma’s story from there. Yerr, I had the whole thing planned out and _whoopsie daisie_ , turns out it’s actual lore. For the purposes of my upcoming fic, I’m disregarding that tab. I’m also going to disregard some of the Solstice entries entirely because, well, you know.
> 
> Love it? Hate it? Is the ending too cheesy? Does Ikora make you mad? Want part 2?! Let me know! Thank you for reading! <3


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